|By Alimshk (Alimshk) on Friday, September 12, 2003 - 07:12 pm: Edit|
This is my revised essay. Dish out as much criticism as you feel fit. Thanks for reading . . . hope you enjoy!
When I was a child, I remember a visit to my grandfather’s house. He lived in a village of clay and stone and straw roof houses. As far as the eye could see, miles and miles of parched rice fields surrounded this small village. My grandfather loved the villagers and each respected him. But I don’t think they understood him; I never understood him. The sweltering heat and thick humidity quickly drained my spirits.
“Dekho dekho, come inside,” my grandfather said, “I want to show you something.” A soothing melody seeped in my ears as I entered his house. My grandfather was playing an instrument; a beautiful teak sitar. My body relaxed and my mind filled with wonderful thoughts as I listened, the notes sank deep in my soul. A cool breeze swept through the room. “Keep playing grandpa,” I said.
The whole village soon gathered around my grandfather’s house. Men were chanting Hindi verse; the women were dancing in circles. I was in the center, still sitting beside my grandfather. I noticed the dry and cracked feet of the villagers as they danced, their hidden worry tucked beneath the joyful liveliness. I knew of the harsh conditions. The crickets now chirped as the sun fell below the earth and the night blanket covered the sky. Our only source of light was the brilliant stars and aromatic candles lit by the children of the village. “Keep playing grandpa,” I said.
My grandfather, in poor health and old age, sat beside me and continued to play his sitar. I wondered about my grandfather, but knew better than to question him. He had always been superstitious, overly watchful of bad omens. The villagers often scoffed at his strange ways. Swarms of mosquitoes now fluttered around the candles. The smell of incense burning in the cool mud filled the air. I was in a subtle trance, embraced by the rich culture. “Grandpa,” I whispered, “you are growing tired. It is getting late. Please rest.”
“I cannot,” my grandfather said. “My fingers have stopped tapping the strings long ago. The music you hear is from my soul, my thirst. I must continue playing until the clouds of rain fill the sky.”
I awoke the next morning with the sound of the birds and the monkeys rustling in the trees. I walked outside in the dim daylight. A soft grayness lay over the vast rice fields in the distance; flamingos flocked around a nearby ditch. Rain drops sprinkled on my head and ran down my face, shattering as they hit the Indian soil. I felt the rain. I felt the admiration, the respect, the love, all for my grandfather. The drought was over.
|By Alimshk (Alimshk) on Friday, September 12, 2003 - 07:41 pm: Edit|
|By Nealp (Nealp) on Friday, September 12, 2003 - 09:52 pm: Edit|
do NOT use "don't" contractions are a no-no. it ruins the solemnity of the essay
I wondered about my grandfather, but knew better than to question him. He had always been superstitious, overly watchful of bad omens : GRAMMAR: improper comma use?
flamingos flocked: flamingo's in india??? also, the alliteration ruins your essay here. "flocked" also sounds hard compared to the gentle rain. flocked is just an ugly word in the context of this essay
great essay...submit it in a memoir/creative writing competition...
|By Nakattacks31 (Nakattacks31) on Saturday, September 13, 2003 - 02:20 am: Edit|
have you even ever been to India?
|By Rohan_Gokhale (Rohan_Gokhale) on Saturday, September 13, 2003 - 08:00 am: Edit|
by the way there ARE flamingos in india. pink flamingos breed in Kutch in Gujrat every year.
|By Alimshk (Alimshk) on Saturday, September 13, 2003 - 10:00 am: Edit|
Yes, this essay is about going to my grandfather's house in arakpali when I was 9 or 10. His village was very very small and everyone farmed rice there. And there ARE flamingos in India - a lot of them.
|By Nealp (Nealp) on Saturday, September 13, 2003 - 01:44 pm: Edit|
wow, i guess i went to the wrong parts! i only saw peacocks
|By Reject (Reject) on Saturday, September 13, 2003 - 01:48 pm: Edit|
i dont like it
|By Kushm (Kushm) on Saturday, September 13, 2003 - 01:52 pm: Edit|
I like this topic and the essay. You should for sure use it. Give this to some smart teachers in your school and have them critique it.
|By Fairyofwind (Fairyofwind) on Saturday, September 13, 2003 - 01:52 pm: Edit|
people don't develop their own voice until they are much more mature, so i guess it's forgivable. it's bad in that it's not only cliche, it's teen-cliche. whatever. you people should read "all over but the shoutin'" poignant yet not teenager-melodramatic, sentimental yet not trite.
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